So Far, So Cold
by LunaStarkPotter
Summary: Post-Reichenbach fall. Sherlock returns from his mission but the reaction of John is utterly not what Sherlock had deducted from the data he had been provided with. John does not need Sherlock in his life anymore (or that's what he keeps telling Sherlock, himself and everyone else.) Angst. I edited this chapter and posted again and hopefully, it's much better.


**A/N:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes. This is my first ever fanfiction so any kind reviews are more than welcome and much needed. Warnings for a lot of angst ;)

I have updated this chapter as I was really not satisfied with the first version and I swear it's much better and far closer to what I initially imagined in my head to look like. So here you go... :)

 **Chapter 1:** **So Far**

 _'I don't want to see your face ever again, Sherlock,' growled John Watson, ignoring the sharp pang of pain that shot through his chest as he said those words, his hands clenched into fists, aching to hit the face of the high-cheeked man who had so easily feigned his death, forcing John into believing that he had lost his only best friend in the world for good, that he would never see him slumped on the sofa in their apartment at 221B, bored at the absence of any interesting case, or share that adrenaline rush of chasing criminals all through the London streets with him, or never be able to yell at Sherlock for putting dead body parts in the refrigerator, that he would never receive a text having the signature SH on his phone._

It had taken John a great deal of time to even get his mind around this heart-wrenching, soul-crushing fact. His mind had been adamant to not register the horrible, painful truth that nothing and no one in the world could bring his consulting detective back. For months John had believed that Sherlock wasn't gone forever. That the Great Sherlock Holmes could not die like that. It could not be true that Sherlock Holmes would take his own life. He knew that Sherlock would not leave John alone knowing how much it would affect the ex-soldier. It was not possible. John knew that one day he would wake up to the sound of Sherlock playing the violin with his slender fingers, his back towards John and when he would turn, there would be a mischievous grin spread across his face and he would tell John about this new case he had been working on and had to disappear for a few months.

Every day he would lie down on his back in the four-poster bed in the morning, his eyes closed, not wanting to wake up in a world where he would not be accompanied by his detective. Thinking that maybe, only maybe, if he'll keep his eyes closed, the unbearable truth would somehow stop being true. Or even if it won't stop, he would not have to exist through all of this. He dreaded daytimes the most because they accompanied the knowledge that people all around him were going on with their happy lives, that they still had their best friends with them while his was so brutally snatched away from him. So far that he could never reach him again. But the months passed and passed and this thought, this wish, this foolish hope that Sherlock would ever come back faltered, making John furious at himself whenever it surfaced its ugly yet shining head again.

At times, he imagined what Sherlock would have done if it had been John to die. Sherlock would have been sad, yes, he knew his emotionless, sociopath for a friend would have mourned the loss of his only friend but then his rational side would have kicked in and he would have known better than to replay all their memories together in his mind like John does all the times. He would have known there was no point wallowing in the pathetic human emotion of self-pity. He would have gotten himself an engaging interesting case and went back to his life of solving crimes for fun. In no time, he wouldn't even remember he had a friend named John. Because if Sherlock would have cared for John more than this, he would not have jumped.

But that wasn't the case with John. He could not forget Sherlock. Even though John had known him only for months, it felt like Sherlock had always been a part of John's life, during his childhood, in the med school, in Afghanistan. He simply could not recall a memory which wasn't followed by the thought of Sherlock, often commenting on the previous recalled memory as if he had been there with him. All his thoughts would always lead him to his human-robot of a friend who had filled John's life with happiness and adventure but most importantly, _purpose_. John felt like a moon who had lost his only star, the star who made John shine and beam with felicity and joy and without his star he now felt lifeless, rocky, cold, dark and alone, lost in the never-ending cosmos, that was John's life, shadowed wholly with the darkness.

 _And when he saw Sherlock again in that restaurant, acting like he hadn't torn the life apart from John in the last two years with his fake death and made him suffer the soul-shattering grief of losing his best mate and was asking for forgiveness like he had only asked John to fetch him some evidence from refrigerator, just because he was too busy in his own mind-palace to do such a menial task. In some remote recess of his mind, that was still working after the whole shock, John Watson decided that he was done doing that job for Sherlock Holmes. He won't make himself an object for Sherlock again, on whom he could bounce his ideas and theories and whom he could leave and toss out of his life whenever he wanted and come back when he needed him again. It's not that he didn't feel the immense relief knowing that his detective was alive and sound but it was immediately followed by waves and waves of other accompanying emotions. Sadness. Grief. Pain. Anger. Rage._

 _Even the thought of the early months after the fall caused pain to shoot through John's whole body. Clenching his fist was all he could do to stop himself from completely crumbling down to the floor and sobbing hard and loud._ _All of this new information was too much for John's mind to take. He didn't utter a single word while Sherlock explained to him how he had gone away only because of John's safety and could not return until he was sure that he had broken all of Moriarty's web. But all John could think was that Sherlock Holmes, his best and only friend in the world was alive, that the genius whose death John was grieving for two years was right in front of him. John had been ready to give everything he had to have this moment but when it actually became true, he couldn't say or express anything at all. At first, it was the shock, which turned into anger when Sherlock asked for the forgiveness. His brain was hazed by the emotions and in between all the mingled thoughts and feelings and the spreading ache in his body, he realized that he needed to get away from here. Get away as soon and as far as possible. Sherlock had stopped talking by now and was looking at him eagerly, hopefully, expecting John to say something, preferably that he understands and that he forgives Sherlock. But when John doesn't utter so much as a sigh, the expression on Sherlock's face wavers and turns to impatience. John gets up (John realizes he must have sat down at some point but doesn't remember when) and turns to leave much to Sherlock's protests. But before he can say or do much, John is out of the restaurant and soon back in his apartment._

 _All through his ride back to the apartment, a lot of thoughts and emotions had crossed John's mind. The strongest one being the pain and the anger. As soon as he entered the apartment and close the door, he broke down. The flood of tears he had been holding back all the evening burst open. He fell down to the floor, his chest heaving with sobs. The agonizing pain washing all over him, raking every nerve of his body. He could feel it in his every muscle, every bone, as though it wanted to crush all of them, break free and swallow John as a whole. Then he would become the pain itself. Or maybe he already had, because he wasn't John Watson anymore that thing was for sure. John Watson, ex-soldier, the blogger, had died the moment he saw the black blob, who happened to be his best friend, against the blue, clear sky, slowly falling down and hitting the pavement._ _John Watson's heart has bled away on that pavement with Sherlock too. Seeing Sherlock alive and well had brought back all those images back to John's mind. Realizing that all of that pain was for nothing, that it was all fake, a cruel lie, made John sick in his stomach and he threw up on the apartment floor. His mind went back to all of the anguishing details of the past years after Sherlock's supposed fall and John's sobbing only got worse._

Sherlock could never understand how much pain John had been in. He didn't know how John's heart has thumped in his heart when he had heard Sherlock saying "Goodbye, John", how he ran, ran to his friend because he knew that if he could only get to Sherlock, he would put some sense into him. What he was saying was not making any sense to him at all. He needed to get to the Sherlock. And then he saw him fall. John's eyes must be betraying him. It could not be Sherlock falling. It just couldn't be. He had to be sure that it wasn't Sherlock. So he ran. He couldn't tell if someone was in the way or not. His eyes had gotten blurred because of something stingy in them.

He could not hear any voice other than his heart beating fast in his chest as of to come out of his throat at any moment. When he saw him lying on the road, all askew he felt unreal. None of this was real. A few hours ago they had been bickering and now Sherlock was lying at the foot of a building, presumably d... No. He couldn't be. He reached to check his pulse but there wasn't any. No. No. No. All of John's senses turned off. It couldn't be happening. John couldn't seem to breathe. There was no breath left in him. He could feel a black hole where there used to be a heart. He could feel something wet on his face too, streaming down his cheeks. That's when the darkness took over him and he passed out.

The following months were all blurry. Blurry and painful. He had been desperate. Desperate to give anything just to have his Sherlock back, to do anything just so he could listen to his voice again, just to have his presence in their room once again. He remembered how one night he had gotten drunk and head spinning, heart lurching in his chest he went to the graveyard where Sherlock was buried and upon reaching the grave he had howled in pain and stayed there the whole night falling in and out of consciousness. He used to believe that a piece of his heart has gone missing, but now, as he presses his cheek to the cold etching of Sherlock's name, he knows that's not the case. Because Sherlock hadn't taken just a piece of his heart with him, he had taken the whole damn thing. Ho could he be so cruel, so disregarding of the soul of John which was now slowly slipping away from him. He spent the night hugging the cold, shining surface of the Sherlock headstone. When he woke up that following evening, he could know that he had broken beyond repair now. Sherlock had done what all of those years in the army, watching people die in his arms, the constant bloodshed around him during his field time couldn't do. He had shattered his soul and now even Sherlock himself cannot undo the damage he had caused.

 _One thing was sure. John would never forgive the man who had made him suffer this much, who had broken his entire soul and made him a dead person walking, the man who had stolen from John his entire universe when he stole his best friend. And that man was Sherlock Holmes himself._

To be continued...

 **P. S.** Please fav, follow, review and let me know if I should continue writing or should just give up. :D


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